


Love and Marriage

by blindbatalex



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Toronto Maple Leafs, potentially inaccurate descriptions of medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-09 18:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: “Yeah I got married and didn’t tell any of you,” David deadpans before it’s too late, finally able to form words, and there is a moment when it goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop.OR, Four Times William and David Almost Revealed They were Married and the One Time They Actually Didedit: now featuring a fluffy epilogue!!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [deepbutdazzlingdarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepbutdazzlingdarkness/pseuds/deepbutdazzlingdarkness) in the [PuckingRare2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2019) collection. 



> This is _a little_ different than the exact prompt you asked for but I hope it is still to your liking!
> 
> A massive thank you to Nani and Jason for betaing and Blue for leafs-picking!

**1\. A Cup of Gelato, Half Eaten and a Quarter Melted**

“You have to admit Pastrnak is the better last name,” David says from across from him, leaning on the table with his elbows.

Around them the airport is bustling with travelers in a rush to get to their gates. In front of him, on the table, is a cup of gelato -- half coffee and half pistachio, William’s go to flavors. It’s half eaten, and a quarter melted. When it’s done, when he licks off the last spoonful, they will get up and go to their respective gates. David’s is to the right from this little shop; William’s is to the left--one flight departing for Boston and the other for Toronto. It’s the last day of summer vacation before training camp and David is being completely unreasonable as he is wont to do with all things Czech.

“How is it a better name?”

David licks his ice cream, all tongue and no grace, because of course he got a cone, licks his lips, and tells him that for one it sounds better.

“For two, it makes the best nickname. Does the shorthand Nylander mean toothpaste in Czech and a delicious dish of carbs in English? Oh no wait, there is no cool shorthand for Nylander.”

David’s cheeks are pink and so is his nose. Even though it is from too much sun this time around, he looks just like this on the rare occasion he gets too heated in an argument too. And he has that glint in his eyes to go with it. William studies it, under the ruse of a glare in return for the insult, so he can commit it to memory. His scruff, his sun-tanned skin. The shaggy hair that is practically begging for someone to lean across and mess up. The faint laughter lines around his eyes. The spot of chocolate gelato next to his pink lips and his chipped tooth. For all the days and weeks he won’t get to see David in person.

He looks down at his own cup. (Because of course he got a cup.) There are at most ten spoonfuls left in it even if he goes slow. He carves out a tiny spoonful from the coffee side and tells David that people not calling him toothpaste is a positive in his book. And Nylander sounds perfectly fine without a shorthand too, thank you very much.

Feels like, it was just yesterday they got on two separate planes to the Caribbean, each licking the wounds of a disappointing end to the season. And William loves hockey; he really does. Playing in the NHL has always been his dream. So you would think he would be a little more excited about going back to it. A little less achy. 

“What’s the alternative then?” David asks, waving his free hand in the air. “Pastrnak-Nylander is way too long.” 

Of course, this is a perfectly hypothetical discussion they are having. For obvious reasons they each kept their actual last names when they got married. They were crazy back then but still not that crazy.

“Who said it would be Pastrnak-Nylander? N comes before P in the alphabet.”

David gives him a look like he has lost his mind just as an employee collecting empty cups -- a lanky twenty-something guy -- comes over to their table. William snatches his cup away from the guy’s reach, tells him he is not done with that.

“Nylander-Pastrnak??” David asks him with disbelief. 

Then he turns to the employee.

“Excuse me.”

The employee stops and looks at him, giving William the evil eye on the side. William holds onto his cup just a little tighter. It’s not done yet goddamnit. (He still has time.)

“Do you speak English?”

The guy nods. “A little,” he says with an accent.

David smiles happily.

“My husband--” David gestures at him “is being--unreasonable.” 

William’s eyes go very wide at the declaration. No one cares about hockey in Italy and they kissed on the beach but it was dark then. 

“He thinks my last name is ugly,” David continues, apparently not sharing his concern. “Help us. What do you think sounds better? David Nylander or William Pastrnak?”

The employee frowns like he just drank expired milk by accident.

“There are homos in NHL, eh?” he asks with a sneer masquerading as a smile.

In an instant, blood drains from William’s veins. A quick glance and David is in the same boat. _Fuck._

“My brother watch,” the man continues, face still scrunched up. He points at David-- “Bruins,” -- points at William, “Toronto.”

_Fuck fuck fuck f--_

David recovers quicker than he does. He laughs and it sounds almost genuine.

“No homos in the NHL,” he says, easily. “It is a joke. We were joking.”

William closes his mouth which was hanging open and nods. “He spends so much time with me, it’s as if we are married. But of course we are not gay.”

The guy turns around with a shrug and walks away before any of them can say something else.

“Why the fuck did you say that for?” William hisses quietly once the guy is for sure out of earshot and he can hear himself speak over the beating of his heart.

David is smiling because he is the one facing the counter but he looks just as pale.

“I didn’t think he would-- no one watches hockey in Italy.”

William stands up. 

“Next time, _think_. I have a plane to catch.”

He doesn’t wait for David to get up, doesn’t even pull him in for a hug. David is looking at him with wide scared eyes, repentant and broken, frozen in place. William leaves him like that, and heads out without another word. 

He slams what’s left of his ice cream into a trash can on the way.

All it takes for the world to come crashing down is a whisper. David knows that. A single whisper. This guy could go online right now and share what he heard--hell, if he recognized them he could have even recorded the conversation, have the whole thing on tape. Their lives as they know it could be over tomorrow and why? Because David never knows where to fucking stop.

Fuck.

**2\. An Exceptionally Warm Hoodie**

Of all the accessories David owns his wedding ring is the most simple. It’s a silver band with no decorations, not particularly thick and not particularly beautiful. He bought it at a pawn shop in New York, didn’t even have the time to get it fitted before their wedding so when the clerk declared them husband and husband his didn’t make it past the knuckle of his finger whereas Willy’s hung so loose it wouldn’t stay in place.

They got it fitted since then and David likes to wear it when he is alone sometimes, admire the way it looks on his finger. He likes to bring it with him on road trips too, unless said trip involves a stop in Toronto (because then it’s flat out bad luck). When he was a rookie it made him feel less alone, like he had a piece of William with him even as he himself was far away - the way wearing number 88 on his back feels, but more intimate. 

It doesn’t mean anything now. He has spent the weeks since that day at the airport checking his phone, every morning, every afternoon, to see if word is out yet. Waiting for the phone to ring with Cassidy or their PR people on the other side. And last week, when he visited Willy, they agreed that they should get a divorce. David was the one who suggested it in fact. They were eighteen when they got married. It was a rash decision in every sense of the word and it was not worth potentially ruining their careers over. A divorce was the sensible thing to do.

He was a little scared if Willy would break up with him for good--because if David was honest that was the actual sensible thing to do--but Willy hadn’t. He was quiet for a moment and then suggested that they should find an attorney then.

They ate breakfast in silence the next morning. A last sip of coffee, a kiss, and then it was time for David to go.

So the ring doesn’t mean anything now. There are divorce papers sitting in a locked drawer back home, waiting to be signed. There is no reason to have brought it on this road trip, why he should put it on in his room this morning, hold his hand up to see how it looks and twist it around. Maybe it’s become a game day superstition, another tiny private thing in a litany of rituals. 

And everyone knows it’s a bad idea to break those.

That’s when David notices the time -- it’s five minutes later than when he was supposed to be down at breakfast -- and well everyone knows the importance of punctuality when it comes to Boston and team breakfasts too.

So he throws his hoodie on and dashes out of the room, and only remembers that he is still wearing his ring in the elevator. They planned a surprise birthday party for Tuukka for later -- Tuukka who hates birthdays -- but let his teammates see a ring on his finger and it will make the surprise of the century. 

He slips it off and puts in the pocket of the hoodie.

That is his first mistake. The second is when he sits down across from Brad who is wearing only a thin t-shirt and rubbing at his arms. 

“It’s so cold in here my teeth are chattering,” Brad says, before he turns to Patrice who is sitting next to him and bares his lips to display his teeth.

Patrice rolls his eyes even as a smile plays on the corners of his lips.

“Your teeth are not chattering,” he tells Brad, taking a sip of his coffee. “I don’t hear anything.”

Brad pouts. 

“That’s because Torey is so loud. Torey be quiet for a moment so Patrice can hear my teeth chatter.”

Krej leans into David from next to him. 

“It’s a ploy to get someone to give him their second layer because he is too lazy to go upstairs,” he says conspiratorially, stating the obvious. “But we all know too well.”

Maybe it’s because the coffee hasn’t hit yet. Maybe it’s because he naturally runs too hot and is starting to sweat in his hoodie. Or maybe it’s his heart, too big for your own good, Willy often says, that wants to help whenever it can. But whatever the reason, David says, “hey do you want my hoodie, man?”

And _that_ , is his third and biggest mistake of them all.

Brad’s eyes find him in an instant and he grins like a child who has been let loose in a candy shop. 

“Pasta you have a heart of gold!” He gives the rest of the table a withering look. “Unlike this bunch,” and he is already holding out his hand to receive the garment with no shame whatsoever.

With a chuckle and without a second thought, David takes it off and hands it over. 

Brad grins happily when he puts the hoodie on, his teeth apparently no longer chattering. 

“It even has a warm pocket so my hands are no longer in danger of frostbite,” he says as he shoves his hands in the front pocket.

David realizes all of his mistakes in an instant but it’s too late. He opens his mouth to say something, though what, he does not know, just as Brad’s grin gives way to a frown.

“What is this?” Brad says as one of his hands comes out to reveal a wedding band sitting on his palm.

“Is that a wedding ring?”

The conversation in their vicinity stops. David swallows; he can feel his cheeks burning like they have been set on fire. Not this again. Not through his own stupidity again. God.

“I--” he stammers, trying to think on his feet, English language still escaping him when he is in a bind. Everyone is looking at the two of them now and the offending ring on Brad’s palm, demanding answers with their eyes. There are few things a hockey team likes as much as winning. Drama and mysteries are two of them.

“Are you like married in secret?” Brad asks bluntly. The man has never been subtle once in his life. 

If they find out--

“Yeah I got married and didn’t tell any of you,” David deadpans before it’s too late, finally able to form words, and there is a moment when it goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

Zee pulled him aside and warned him the first time they were playing the Leafs and Willy was starting, to not to let his personal feelings get in the way. As if David didn’t already know. Others were less tactful: they told him with grins bordering on leers that the past didn’t mean horseshit when it came to hockey, told him not to go soft. With a glint in their eyes, like they knew, or suspected at least. There were few times David felt as small as he did then, as angry. As if he had done something -- as if he was something -- dirty, to be ashamed of. 

If they found out-- Well, this time William is going to murder him with his bare hands for one if they find out.

David rolls his eyes. He looks Brad in the eye, knowing that he has to keep his voice even for this to work.

He tells them he found the ring on the floor in the elevator and meant to return it to the lobby but he was running late to breakfast and so didn’t get around to it yet. Asks them how they are all so easy to fool.

No one says anything for a second and David can see it so clearly--a conversation with Sweeney, the disgust in his eyes. The jokes. An open suitcase on his bedroom floor.

Zee is sitting next to Bergy. He catches David’s eye and grins, and just like that the spell is lifted. The table breaks into chatter and David draws in an uneven breath, his heart still beating like it will burst any moment.

“As if you can even keep a secret,” Tuukka grumbles. 

“I never bought it, just so you know,” Krej tells him. Torey shoots back to say that Brad totally did though. Patrice wonders whether David would wear a fedora to his wedding which gets a laugh but because he is an actual saint he reassures David that he would look lovely either way.

Willy disagreed with that. Kicked at his shin, rolled his eyes, and told him he looked like a fool and that he couldn’t believe he was marrying someone who wore a fedora to his wedding ceremony. His thigh was pressed against David’s in the cramped space of the cab they were taking to the city hall and he was made of energy. Neither of them could stop grinning since the morning or sit still. ‘Hush, you know you love me,’ David shot back. They were getting married. 

He is grinning now too but it’s hollow--a manipulation of facial muscles to produce the most appropriate expression. 

Brad slides the ring next to his own and examines his hand. 

“That is one hell of an ugly ring,” he declares, “whoever the owner is, he must not love his wife very much.”

“Or husband,” Jake chimes in. “You don’t know it’s not an unhappy gay marriage.”

David holds out his hand palm up to Brad, resisting the sudden urge to laugh. That’s them alright. 

“We should probably not lose that thing for the sake of the poor guy in an unhappy gay marriage. I will return it to the lobby when we are done.”

But Brad only snatches his hand away. He takes off the ring and slips it into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Oh please,” he says warmly, “you stopped me from freezing to death when none of my other supposed friends would. Saving you a trip to the lobby is the least I can do.”

David inhales with lungs that are refusing to expand properly. Willy had drawn an 88 on David’s wrist with his finger when they were reciting their vows, before he slipped this ugly ring onto David’s finger as far as it would go. But there are divorce papers waiting to be signed back home and it doesn’t mean anything now. It shouldn’t matter one way or another whether he gets to keep the ring or not.

He nods and he wonders what would happen to William’s ring - what he will do with it - as he shoves oatmeal that tastes like sawdust into his mouth. Whether he has kept it in some obscure corner of his house.

**3\. Love at First Sneeze**

In William’s dream he is at the airport holding a bouquet of wildflowers--a splash of color and life so beautiful you could get lost in them if you looked for too long. The security doors slide open and David emerges from the other side, dressed in all white, his hair wild and unruly underneath the -- white -- snapback. His face melts into a smile -- the loveliest William has ever seen -- when he spots William, chipped tooth and crinkled eyes and everything in between. William closes the distance between them in a few steps and flings himself into David’s arms, inhaling him, nuzzling his neck. David smells nice like always does and William has missed him so much, but it’s alright now because he is here. “Welcome home,” William says, and when he lifts his head David’s lips are right there for the taking, so pink and pretty. He has missed them so much too.

David tucks William’s hair behind his ear with reverent fingers when they break apart, William doesn’t know after how long. He lets his hand stay on William’s cheek and says, “let’s go home,” his voice so warm that it nearly makes William tear up. 

William startles awake at the ringing of the doorbell. He scrambles to his feet and heads to the door, rubbing his eyes. When he opens it, it’s David on the other side, in a gray button down and hair frazzled under a white snapback.

His smile fades when he sees William.

“Hey man, you okay?” he asks even as he steps inside and closes the door behind him. William thinks back to last year’s gelato debacle at the airport and buries his head in David’s neck. David’s cologne is different than in his dream, too sharp, but he is just as warm. David holds him without being asked; his fingers dig into William’s hair. 

“Just disoriented from a nap.”

“Yeah?” David’s voice is gentle. Like he doesn’t quite believe William but he won’t push it. “I missed you.”

William would like to tell him but he doesn’t know how -- that he would like to do it just the once, even though it’s such a trivial, stupid thing -- go to the airport with a bouquet of flowers and pull David in for a kiss when he arrives.

For the two of them to go home. Just the once.

So he kisses David instead, pushes him against the door in lieu of a reply, here in his house where no one can see.

*

He wants all of David all at once, and David seems to want the same thing. David has recently decided that it’s bad luck for the Bruins when the two of them hang out before they play each other, and the Bruins flew out of Toronto right after the game last month before William could so much as wave at David. They fought over it too--William asked bitterly afterwards how well David’s new superstition was working seeing as they still lost the game, and got a bitter answer--but the fact remains that it’s been two months since they saw each other last. 

“You need to stop squirming,” he tells David before he starts to work on the buttons of David’s shirt but his fingers get tangled up because it’s very hard to do anything when David is looking up at him like that, all puckered lips and wide eyes and impatience. The way he did when he was sixteen and William was kissing him for the first time. God, William froze up then, that first time, hands trembling, heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. It’s easy to forget now, all the things that don’t work, when he looks like this. But it’s not easy to undo buttons. 

He decides to add _all guests must be shirtless at all times_ to his list of house rules with immediate effect the moment they are done.

And he is almost there. He has finally managed to unbutton all the buttons and is running his hands over the vast expanse of David’s chest and abs, his skin burning with desire, when his doorbell rings. 

David groans from where he is pinned to the couch under him. “Ignore it,” he commands pulling William down by force. 

William is more than fine with that. He doesn’t know how they survived two months apart; it feels like he will die if he has to let go now.

The doorbell rings again just as William is sucking an ill advised hickey into David’s collarbone. William ignores it again.

Then, comes the unmistakable jingle of keys turning in the lock.

“Hey man you are not home but I am using Auston’s spare keys to come in just so you know,” Mitch shouts from the other side of the door, loud enough for probably half the neighborhood to hear.

David and William try to get up at the same instant, end up falling to the floor in a tangled heap. They quickly scramble to their feet. William takes one quick look at him and fuck--with David standing there with swollen lips and a fresh hickey blossoming on his collarbone there is no way to make this look innocent. So William does the next best thing and shoves David into the closet where he keeps his cleaning supplies, throwing his shirt in after him.

He has just closed the closet door when Mitch walks in. 

“Willy!” his friend says with a mix of surprise and excitement. “I rang the doorbell fifty times man. I thought you weren’t home when you didn’t answer.”

William rubs at the back of his neck. 

“I had the TV on, must not have heard you there,” he lies, doing his best to sound convincing. And not all like he is hiding a wholeass Bruin in his closet.

Mitch raises an eyebrow and it occurs to William that he is standing in his hallway only in jeans, his belt unbuckled, and his hard-on probably very obvious. He winks obnoxiously.

“Must be some interesting show you were watching. Wanna watch together? Unless it was po--”

“What brings you here?”

Mitch’s face is doing that thing when he is supposedly trying to hold back a grin but putting in very little real effort. He hands William a light blue hoodie.

“Alright, alright I won’t keep you; you can go back to your ‘show.’ I just wanted to return this and see if you wanted to play Fortnite or something.”

William takes the garment. 

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Yeah no I got that,” Mitch laughs. William rolls his eyes. Given that they are both grown men, the potential of walking in on your friend jerking off shouldn’t be this funny. 

Still, David’s shoes are peeking from under the couch, and divorce papers that need to be signed are on the coffee table at the far end of his line of vision past Mitch’s shoulder. So he will take this.

And he has almost made it. Mitch has turned around and is safely making his way to the door when a noise makes them both stop in their tracks.

_Achoo!_

William closes his eyes. It is the most violent sneeze he has ever heard, what he imagines Godzilla would sound like if it had a cold.

“Oh my God, is there a person in your--closet!!” Mitch turns around and asks in a fierce whisper, eyes suddenly wide. He stares at the closet door as if he will develop x-ray vision and see the owner of the voice if he looks hard enough.

William is deciding what to say to that when David sneezes again, just in case there was any doubt the first time around. 

This is how the world ends, a part of his mind supplies, not with a bang but with a Godzilla sneeze.

“Dude, her voice is so deep!” Mitch remarks, utterly fascinated.

William opens his mouth to deny it, to say it's not what Mitch thinks it is--he can explain--when he hears what Mitch actually said. _Her_ voice. William exhales.

“She has a--a throat--thing.” 

He tries not to flinch at how awkward that sounds, but thank fuck that Mitch seems to buy it. If Kappy had shown up at his place instead he would have told William to quit being so full of shit and yanked the closet door open by now, revealing one Bruin with a severe dust allergy. The hairs on William’s arm stand on edge at the thought. _I thought we were friends. How the fuck could you hide something like this from me?_ , he can hear Kappy accuse him in his head, voice thick with hurt and disgust. 

“So who is she?”

The question jostles William back to the here and now. He glares at Mitch and gestures him towards the door.

“No one you know.”

“Will you introduce her to us?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you in love?”

William stops mid-inhale, taken by surprise. Mitch stops too.

“You are,” he murmurs, his eyes even wider now. “I won’t tell anyone.”

William opens the door. He knows his friend too well to know that is not true. Everyone knows Mitch too well to know that is not true.

“You will tell Auston.”

Mitch frowns for a moment like he wants to argue but then he reconsiders and tells William he will _only_ tell Auston.

And with that he walks out the door. He looks back once as if he has another question to ask but whatever it is William shuts the door before he can.

He takes a single moment to close his eyes and lean against the door. There are no homos in the NHL after all. William hates that normally but not today if it means Mitch didn’t even consider why else the person in his closet could have such a deep voice.

*

David is wiping at his nose with one hand while wiping at his eyes with the other when William lets him out.

He sits David on the couch, hands him a box of tissues, and goes to the bathroom to fetch some antihistamines, trying to regulate his breathing and pulse after the close call they had.

“I think this makes us even--” David says past a sniffle when William comes back, “--for the airport.”

William glares at him too. He has done so much glaring today. Sometimes, at times like this, he wants to give David a nice framed calligraphy that says ‘Letting Go is Not an Island in the Caribbean,’ so he can hang it in his room.

But he still sits down next to him.

“You were the one who sneezed and nearly gave us away.”

“It’s not my fucking f -- _achoo_! -- fault that your closet is so dusty.”

William helps him to some more tissues. David looks so miserable like this, his whole face a leaking snotty mess, _and_ he is pouting, that it puts a smile on William’s face, despite everything. He debates lying on David’s lap but quickly gives up on the idea when he considers the copious amounts of snot that will fly onto his face, and settles for resting his head on David’s shoulder instead.

“Fine,” he says, because he is feeling charitable, and not at all because of the spark of warmth blooming in his chest, “let’s call it even.”

David whoops happily next to him. But it cuts short when William turns on the TV.

“Babe, I thought we were going to fuck.

David says it with such unhappiness that William can't help but burst into laughter.

David looks positively hurt when William finally manages to make himself stop. His eyes are red and his face is twitching with what William assumes are sniffles he is trying to hold in so as to look serious. It does the absolute opposite. In this state he is down to fuck, he is upset that William isn't and God, William loves this stupid man so much. To the point it’s kind of scary sometimes.

He interlaces their fingers together on David’s lap.

“We will, love, but we need the antihistamines to kick in first. Same as last time--I still don't have a snot kink.” 

**4\. An Engagement Party**

They are doing video review and Noel is a ball of restless energy two seats from David. Cassidy is going over Flyers’ style of play with examples from recent games and Noel keeps tapping his foot on the floor, knee bouncing up and down; David has already lost count of how many times he has checked his phone in the last five minutes.

He is not the only one who has noticed either apparently because next time he does it Cassidy stops mid-sentence.

“I am sorry, are we boring you?” he asks Noel, eyes fixed firmly on his player.

Noel sits ramrod straight. “Of course not,” he replies quickly. “Sorry coach.” He is a tough man - there is a reason they call him the bulldozer - but his jaw is clenched tight and color is creeping its way up his neck at being called out.

Cassidy nods, and satisfied, goes back to discussing strategy for how to stop the Giroux line. Not two minutes have passed before Noel’s foot starts tapping on the floor again however, and Cassidy stops once again; looks at Noel.

“Do you have somewhere to be son?”

Noel stares back at Cassidy wide-eyed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The room is deadly quiet, Noel is turning redder by each passing moment instead of defending himself, and David wishes for someone - anyone - to put him out of his misery when--

Torey rolls his eyes.

“He is going to propose to Kaitlyn after we are done here.”

The silence lasts for another ten seconds as everyone digests the news, Noel is red as a lobster at this point, and then the room bursts into cheers as if Noel just scored a magnificent goal. Cassidy’s expression softens.

“Well, you definitely have somewhere to be,” he says with a heartfelt smile. “Why don’t we call it a day as long as everyone comes in ten minutes early tomorrow so we can wrap up the discussion?” 

The team is more than amenable to that and they break into chatter. Cassidy claps Noel on the back and wishes him best of luck; the guys follow suit with matching smiles on their faces and delight in their voice.

“I am buying drinks when she says no,” Sean quips with a devilish grin.

“Not even an ‘if’ - that’s harsh man.” Charlie replies.

“What? He is not much to look at and not particularly charming either - I wouldn’t marry him.”

“I don’t want to marry you,” Noel shoots back, a look of near disgust on his face. David doesn’t know whether it’s put-on or for real. Probably a little bit of both. 

“Even David agrees with me,” he says as he stands up and David becomes aware of what his face must be doing as half a dozen eyes land on him. He does his best to quickly whip his expression into shape.

“I’m sure she will say yes man,” he says mechanically, “best of luck.”

Noel nods once, a little wide-eyed, and makes a dash for the door. Bergy shoots him a quick look, from a few seats over, silently asking if he is okay. David does his best to smile and heads for the parking lot.

*

He means to turn the notifications off for the group chat. His phone buzzes about an hour later with a text from Noel. SHE SAID YES!!! It simply reads. And then the phone buzzes and buzzes again as congratulations filter in.

David watches the text from Sean pop up - _I still wouldn’t marry you_ \- before he tosses the phone away.

Some years ago he had sat on the floor of his then-new bedroom, clutching a different, older phone in his hand and more than tipsy, waiting for it to buzz, heart in his mouth.

He had grinned like a maniac when it did, a single word flashing on his screen.

**Yes.**

*

When he picks up his phone again there are about a thousand texts in the group chat he doesn’t bother to scroll through. But it’s clear from the last few that a celebration has been organized and they are going out for drinks tonight, with wives and girlfriends, to celebrate their newest soon-to-be-married couple.

Last time he talked to Willy, Willy told him that he needed to cancel that month’s meetup to go to Zach Hyman’s housewarming party and David told him to fuck off in Czech. 

He rubs at his eyes with the base of his palms. It’s bad if he doesn’t go. Which is ironic because that’s exactly what William said about Zach Hyman’s housewarming party.

That first year when they were drafted, they spent two weeks apart when training camp started. It had been their dream -- to come to North America, NHL almost within their reach. It’s just that when they dreamt -- when they talked about coming here, getting drafted, their voices thick with wonder in the dark -- David didn’t realize how lonely it would be, without Willy by his side, without Willy to hold him in the night. Willy didn’t sound like he realized it either and a sort of silence descended between them towards the end of their video call, heavy and forlorn.

And so David took a few shots of tequila when they hung up, waited for the liquid courage to kick in, and then sent Willy a text. Which he thought was either the best idea he ever had, or the worst.

**What if we got married?**

Felt like if he had a ring -- a ring that was now forever lost in the lobby of a hotel in St.Louis or maybe had already found its way to another pawn shop -- a piece of paper, he could hold onto it; hold onto Willy, come what may.

Brad, Katrina, Stephanie, and Bergy are huddled together in one corner, talking in animated voices and big smiles about who knows what. Charlie and his girlfriend are beating Jake and Joelle at darts. There is a circle around Noel and Kaitlyn who are already stock photos of heterosexual wedded bliss. Kaitlyn lifts her hand to show off her ring to Naomi and David closes his eyes. 

He had convinced the little old Chinese lady who cleans their room at the hotel they were staying at to be their witness. She was kind and she had no idea who either of them were. They had gone to New York to tie the knot for the same reason. New York didn't care whether two young hockey players wanted to get hitched. They were nobodies in the city that never slept. 

“You think an umbrella is going to protect me when the skies fall down?” Jake asks, poking him on the arm.

David looks up, startled.

“What even are you talking about?”

“I think the skies might fall,” Jake repeats gently, like he is talking to a child. “Because you are brooding. You never brood.”

David looks at Jake, then at his own fingers curled tightly around his drink, takes stock of his hunched shoulders and his frown. It doesn’t look good.

“David here is not a fan of the institution of marriage,” Charlie adds, clapping him on both of his shoulders. So much shoulder clapping today. Too much.

"We will find someone for you to date yet," Jake chirps, "don't be jealous."

David looks Jake in the eye, suddenly furious. _Don’t be jealous_. Jake has no fucking idea and he never will. One day Jake too will propose to his girlfriend, whether it’s Jo or someone else equally thin and equally blond, she will say yes, and they will come together in a bar just like this to celebrate, surrounded by his teammates, showing off a diamond ring. He gets to bring Jo to events, introduce her as his girlfriend, hold her hand in public.

Nobody took aside Jake to tell him that Jo was the enemy when they were on the ice, as if he didn’t already fucking know. He never had to cut off dinners before games because evidently it was bad luck. Nobody told him to choose between hockey and the person he loves. 

“Do you have any idea--?” he spits out before he can help it.

Jake’s eyes widen. His tone isn’t hostile when he replies but it isn’t friendly either--he is not one to be scared off a challenge.

“About what?” 

And David wonders what would happen if he told the truth. Stood up on a counter and shouted at the top of his lungs that nobody threw him an engagement party. That the last thing he texted William -- his _husband_ \-- was for him to sign the fucking divorce papers. Papers they drew up more than a year ago and never got around to signing because--

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

“About nothing,” he says when he opens them again. He heads for the door, citing a headache, without waiting for a reply.

**5\. A Moment of Truth**

William is driving past the Royal Ontario Museum in an Uber on Tuesday evening at 5.34 pm - a perfectly unremarkable set of facts on their own. Except that in the next moment his phone rings and the conversation that follows burns every part of his surroundings -- the jagged angles of the building even more ominous against the gray clouds, the honk of a cab driving by -- into his memory for good.

It’s an unknown number. William considers not picking it up but when he does he finds Zdeno Chara on the other end.

“William,” the Bruins captain says, and his voice is calm, so calm that it twists something in William’s gut even before he asks William whether he is driving.

William tells him that he is in an Uber.

Chara takes in a breath and explains that David has been in an accident - jumped in front of a car to push a kid out of the way. He has asked for William in the ambulance according to the EMTs.

“How bad?” William hears himself ask but it’s as if his voice belongs to someone else. The car stops at a red light and a woman in a striking red dress walks past in stiletto heels, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

“He is in surgery,” Chara replies, which isn’t an answer at all. It is scary how calm Chara’s voice is in all of this, how devoid of emotion. “According to the nurses he was semi-conscious when they brought him in.”

William tells his Uber to take him home - he needs to grab his passport - has to be reminded that he needs to make the change in the app. He has already bought his ticket to the next available flight by the time the car pulls up in front of his apartment building.

*

Chara greets him at the lobby of the hospital, some three hours later. Half the Bruins roster is gathered in the private waiting room he takes William to. Half the roster is there and yet the room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. They look up when the two of them walk in, faces grim with concern. William would be -- is bothered the right word? -- _self-conscious_ about the frowns some of David’s teammates give him, questioning what he is doing there, any other time. Now he just sits in the one empty chair he spots, too numb to feel or think about anything except David.

William meant to apologize. He meant to fly to Boston and buy flowers and stand outside David’s door in the rain, kiss him there until they were drenched to the bone and everything was right between them again. Undo the toll years of living long distance took on them. To play with his hair in the night and whisper how much he loved him to his ear, the way they used to when they were seventeen.

But he didn’t get around to any of it. Instead, their last conversation was when they fought and David told him to fuck off in Czech. The last text David sent is a reminder for him to please sign the divorce papers. _We knew it was a bad idea from the start_ , it reads. 

William plays with his wedding ring in his pocket -- he remembered to take it at the last minute, for what, he doesn’t know -- puts it on his finger without taking his hand out. 

David had held both of William’s hands in his own in front of the clerk that day in New York, said with that goofy open smile of his “I will always be there for you. Regardless of which team, which city either of us are in. You are the love of my life and I will always be yours.”

David has to be okay. He has to be.

*

And he is, as it turns out. The surgeon comes in after he doesn’t know how long, the entire room rise to their feet all at once, ‘the operation went well and it’s still too early to tell but we expect a full recovery.’

“Can we see him?” William asks with what feels like the first full breath he has been able to draw in hours.

“Not all of you,” the surgeon frowns, “but a couple of you, yeah.”

They decide on Chara and Bergeron. Whether William is going is not a question. 

“Why does he get to go?” someone - DeBrusk - asks in a hushed voice but he shuts the fuck up when William levels him with a glare. God himself wouldn’t be able to stop William from seeing David right now if he tried.

They follow a nurse into the ICU, to a room with a wide glass pane in its wall that faces the hallway. Behind it David is lying unconscious in a hospital bed, breathing on his own which is good but he is so very still. Tubes and wires snake their way to his body and his vitals flash on a monitor. There are cuts on his face - must be from broken glass, William thinks distantly -- and an ugly bruise on his cheek. His arm is in a cast. 

William stands by the window for a few moments as if frozen in place by a spell. Then he moves as quickly as he can to the door, to walk in, to be by David’s side.

Something -- someone -- stops him, stands in the way. It’s the nurse from earlier, with large curly hair. William glares at her and tells her to move out of the way. David is in that room, still unconscious and so William needs to be in that room too.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says, holding her ground. “The only people allowed in are family members.”

“I am family,” William replies, without so much as blinking. He slips the ring on his finger again and holds out his hand in front of him. “He is my husband.”

The nurse looks at him, and then past William’s shoulder with wide eyes, trying and failing to hide her surprise and William is whipping out his phone to show her the last text conversation he had with David, to say he never did sign those papers, but she yields before he can.

William strides inside, not looking at her, not looking at Chara and Bergeron who are standing somewhere behind him. 

David will murder him when he wakes up. There will be hell to pay. It’s his career on the line but it's David’s too. And yet--how could he turn away--how could he turn away and leave when the only man he has ever loved is lying unconscious in a hospital bed. He doesn’t realize he is shaking until he holds David’s hand in his and sees both tremble.

David almost looks like he could be sleeping, if not for the cannula tucked around his ears. Almost.

“I am sorry for everything,” William whispers, not knowing what else to say. 

*

David gives his hand a squeeze a couple of hours later, faint, but more than enough to break William from his reverie. William zoned out, thoughts chasing each other in his head without order or coherency. Now, he sees only David, squeezes his hand back, and strokes his cheek. David frowns at first before his blue-gray eyes flutter open and find William, drowsy and a little unfocused.

“Hey,” William smiles. “You are at the hospital but everything is okay. How are you feeling?”

David squints at him for a moment, like he can’t decide if William is real or not, still frowning.

“I wouldn’t—” he starts, slurring his words. He draws in a shaky breath and William is about to tell him to save his strength when he continues, that spark of determination in his eyes he usually saves for the ice and when he wants to get his way for what they are having for dinner. “Wouldn’t mind being David Nylander.”

William frowns back for a moment -- what even is he talking about -- before their discussion from the airport comes back to him, from so long ago, and he laughs. Whether because David is barely conscious and this is what he wants to talk about, or because of the relief, or because he wouldn’t mind giving up everything else he had as long as he could keep listening to David speak, about anything at all -- he doesn’t know.

David closes his eyes, like talking is taking him too much effort but he doesn’t stop.

“I thought I might die...and you would never know. Was being an ass—that day.”

God. David thought he was—and he thought about—and that when they never could share a last name even if they wanted to. William holds David’s good hand even tighter in between his own. He has promised himself he won’t cry. Not where David can see.

He draws an 88 on David’s wrist with his finger, mostly to center himself, and tells David that no one is dying. And if David must know he wouldn’t mind being William Pastrnak either. Never has.

At that, David cranks an eye open and gives William a look that would be sly if it wasn't positively dopey. He grins.

“Good thing because it just sounds so much better.” 

William tells him that he is a little shit, tears stinging against his eyes and testing his resolution.

“But you love me anyway,” David sighs. His eyes flutter close, but he forces them open again. “I am sorry about--the shouting.”

William rests his head on David’s good shoulder without putting any pressure on it, or rather hides his face so at least David can’t _see_ him cry.

It mattered the world last week--that his teammates would suspect something was up if he missed his good friend's housewarming party and word got out that he was in Boston. They knew he was friends with David after all -- that, everyone knew -- but he was supposed to have his priorities straight.

It mattered nothing now. And if things have gone worse--God, William can't even bring himself to think about that.

“I am sorry too. David--I am so sorry.”

David puts his hand on the back of William’s head and digs his fingers into his hair, stroking it gently.

“You can go to all the house parties that you want,” he murmurs, trailing off at the end of the sentence and he has already drifted off again by the time William draws back.

*

There is a single line text from Zdeno Chara, sent two hours ago, when William remembers to check his phone.

 _We should talk when you have a moment._ , it reads, complete with the period at the end. William closes his eyes. David has been dozing on and off next to him. Last time he woke up he told William in Swedish that he wanted fries. The time before that he told William that he loved him.

A quick google search of his name brings up discussion of the stupid penalty he took in the last game; a Google search of David’s brings up news and rumors about the accident but—nothing about the two of them. There are no texts from their PR people or missed calls from Dubas or Babcock. Word isn’t out, it seems, not yet.

William texts back to ask if he should give Chara a call if he is still awake. Though time has lost most of its meaning his phone says that it’s past midnight.

His phone buzzes less than a minute later.

**We are at the hospital cafeteria. You should probably eat something.**

We.

William sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“We are not even about the airport,” David mumbles from the bed without opening his eyes. He squeezes William’s hand. “Brad found my wedding ring. But it’s okay...they don’t know.”

Something cold and deadly twists in William’s chest, like a knife. He reassures David that it’s alright, strokes his cheek and rubs at his arm until he is out again. And then he gets up to face the consequences of what he has done.

*

The hospital is an eerie place to wander at night. The brightly lit corridors expand and stretch when you aren’t looking and that faint smell of antiseptic sticks to your skin, seems to find its way to your bones. William has always hated it. 

And that’s without the looks he gets from the ICU staff now. The nurses stare at him from the corner of their eyes as he walks past, as if he is a wild animal that could attack.

He stops just before he turns into the cafeteria, trying to steel himself for what’s on the other side of these doors, his heart pounding like he took a double shift on the PK. 

He feared it all his life--dreaded it--this moment. This moment he has brought upon himself but what choice did he have?

A tall man stands up and raises his hand when William walks in to the mostly deserted café. He is at a table in the very corner, shrouded in the shadows—the only thing that gives him away as the Bruins captain is his height. There is one other person sitting next to him, who reveals himself as Patrice Bergeron when William gets close enough to see. 

He pulls up a chair and sits across from them, with his back to the rest of the cafeteria.

Chara is haggard, looks his age in this light, and there is something deeply unsettling about his eyes. William has never been mad enough to do it himself but others on the team tell horror stories of throwing hands with Chara, that look-- _this_ look in his eyes. Cold, and without mercy. Bergeron--he is supposed to be the kind one--David gushes about him every time he comes up in conversation, what a leader he is, mentor, friend but--Bergeron is frowning and William doesn’t think that side is for him, for people like him.

He thinks for the first time what he is going to tell David when he wakes up for good—the disappointment in his eyes. All of their efforts—sacrifices—over the years to keep things under covers gone in the blink of an eye. Would a stronger man, better man, have been able to turn his back and leave when the nurse told him to do so, wait in a deserted café for updates?

“How is he doing?”

The sound startles William. He finds Bergeron looking at him. 

“He is uh-- okay,” William replies, running a hand through his face, gives them a rundown of what the doctor said when she did her last round. How David woke up to ask for fries. He omits what he said the other three times.

Bergeron smiles a little at that, he is tired but the relief on his face is hard to miss. They care about David. 

“About the other thing—” Chara says a moment later.

About the other thing. Around pride night William will look at the comments sections of the team’s Instagram posts sometimes, scroll through them in the dark on his own. And then he will look at the comments on the Bruins’ posts too. “You are just torturing yourself,” David had said with a tut the one time he caught him, frowning. He is but he likes the reminder, for all those times when he dares to hope—catches himself dreaming.

Chara sounds so calm again—the way he did on the phone—William doesn’t know how any of the Bruins deal with it. The man could tell you that the world ended yesterday actually, and his voice wouldn’t even crack. And William can’t breathe. He does his best to meet his eye—he is not going to look away—but there isn’t enough oxygen in the room to fill his lungs, no matter how hard he tries.

“Sweeney unleashed lawyers onto everyone who works in the ICU, put the fear of God in them -- that if they break patient confidentiality in any way, leak any information, that he will come for their lives, sue them for everything they are worth and make sure they never work in the medical profession ever again.”

“I sometimes think Sweeney chooses the lawyers he works with by how scary they look,” Bergeron admits around a small smile, “so I don’t think we need to worry about that.”

“Cassidy knows,” Chara adds, “but that’s it. And obviously no word will come out from any of us.”

William frowns, takes in another breath that falls woefully short. Are they--what are they--

Chara pushes two Tupperware containers towards him and hands him a plastic plate and a fork, like he just remembered. William glances at it – it seems to contain—grilled vegetables and then back at Chara, uncomprehending.

“You need to eat,” Chara explains, “and the food in this place isn’t particularly good. My wife made these. Much healthier.”

William blinks at him, and then back at the food. His head is spinning. He puts his elbows on the table and runs his hair through his hands, holding his head when he is done. 

“Where is the ‘but’?” he asks his eyes fixed on the plastic table. 

“What do you mean?”

William looks up at Bergeron. His head is spinning and he feels like he is going to be sick but it’s better to face the train coming his way head on. He just needs to know.

“Sweeney’s lawyers scared the nurses and you won’t say anything _but_ \--?” He waves one of his hands in the air, holds it out to Bergeron when he’s done so he can see the ring he is still wearing on his finger. “You heard me tell a nurse that I am the wedded husband of your star winger--and you want me to--eat?”

Understanding seems to dawn on Bergeron’s face at that. He smiles, which is not what William was expecting.

“We want you to eat because Pasta is going to be pissed if he hears you passed out from hunger and exhaustion. At you but also at us. It was--unexpected to hear the news but it makes you family now. And we look after family.”

“ _But_ ,” Chara adds enthusiastically, like he is proud to use the magic word, “just because you are our son-in-law doesn’t mean you will get preferential treatment next time we play you guys.”

William looks between the two of them, trying to read between the lines, find the catch so he can protect himself--protect David against it. Family. Maybe he misheard them. Maybe they are lying. Because they called him--and no way is that for real. The world doesn't work like that. William knows that it fucking--

"William," Bergeron says and startles him. "It's going to be alright. We have your back."

Bergeron is looking him in the eye and William feels his shoulders shake, the hot sensation of tears against his skin, before he realizes that he is crying. Sobbing in fact, with no grace. As if he was a Jenga tower on its last legs and someone pulled out the wrong block.

Bergeron stands up and William feels a hand on his back, gently rubbing at it. “It’s alright,” Bergeron says calmly, “you are both going to be alright,” and it’s fucking weird because Patrice Bergeron is not supposed to be doing that—not for him, but it helps too. More than William can put to words. 

*

At some point, William lets himself be driven to Chara’s house. It’s a sunny day—you can’t tell how cold it is outside by looking from inside the car. David is doing well. Mrs. Pastrnak is here and they all universally decided that William needs some rest. He acquiesced mostly because he was too tired—too spent—to argue and it took less effort to get into Chara’s car than to find his way to a hotel.

“We take pride in the locker room culture we built, you know,” Chara says, his eyes on the road. “But we failed both you and David if it took a car accident before you felt comfortable enough to tell us. I am sorry William.”

And of all the time William spent imagining this moment, things people—other players, let alone the captain of the Bruins—might say to him, this was never it. He imagined jeers, disappointment, anger. He imagined disgust, but he never imagined an apology.

”I don’t know what to say,” he replies quietly, hugging himself a little tighter, because it’s the truth. Because what do you say?

Chara reassures him that he doesn’t need to say anything and William’s chest aches with a feeling he can't name.

*

At some point, Bergeron apologizes too, tells him that they lost David’s ring in St. Louis some time ago. William didn’t know David took his ring on road trips and it twists something in his chest. Marchand seems to be the main culprit for the lost ring and William hasn’t known Bergeron for long off the ice but he has a sense that the center tends to apologize quite a bit for his winger. It’s almost endearing.

And at some point, when David is awake for real and lucid he talks to David. David is sitting up in bed -- no longer in intensive care -- and sipping apple juice from a cup with a straw. 

“There is something I need to tell you,” he says, sitting down.

“You only told me you like the way William Pastrnak sounds because you almost lost me?” David slurps some apple juice and fixes him with a look.

“Letting go is not an island in the Caribbean, Pasta.” William chuckles and shakes his head. “But not that.” He drags a hand through his face. 

“That first night, when you were in the ICU, the nurse told me that the only people allowed to stay were family. And I--” Will David be angry at him? He has every reason to. “--I told them that we were married. Sweeney made sure word didn’t leave the hospital. And the only other people who know are Cassidy, Chara and Bergeron and I don’t think they mind.” He takes in a breath and looks at David to try and gauge his reaction. “Chara called me—his son-in-law.”

David snorts at that and then winces when it must hurt his broken ribs.

“Has he given you the speech on the importance of a plant based diet yet then?”

William laughs. Partially because this was not the reaction he was expecting, but the world has not been keeping up with his expectations as of late, and also partially because Chara totally has. 

Twice, in fact, not counting that first night in the hospital cafeteria. The first time was when they were eating dinner at Chara's house, and the second time indirectly, when Chara saw the care package DeBrusk brought him, which consisted mostly of Oreos and Snickers bars, and the two Bruins had a hushed conversation on whether it was acceptable to feed William junk food, given, DeBrusk argued, he was the enemy and a suboptimal performance by him benefited the Bruins.

"He is also family," Chara hissed and it was still an odd thing to hear from well, Zdeno Chara, but William had smiled to himself nonetheless.

David smiles.

“That sounds like them alright.”

William is usually good at knowing when David’s smile reaches his eyes and when it holds something back but today he doesn’t know. He can’t tell. And for this next part, he finds that he can’t look David in the eye, so he fixes his gaze on the corner of his blanket instead, where it half-folds. He breathes in.

“I’m sorry. It could have gone much worse and I didn’t ask you. I just--” He curls his fingers around the blanket. “I couldn’t—I had to be by your side.”

He clenches his jaw and keeps his gaze firmly on the blanket. Why do all hospital blankets come in drab colors? And the thing is, he would have done the same thing all over again given the choice. Hell, he probably would have claimed they were married even if they weren’t—anything that would mean he wasn’t forced to turn around from that window and leave.

“So that certainly explains why Nurse Johnson gave me a whole spiel about how love triumphs over hate while changing the IV bag.”

William looks up.

“She went on for five minutes man, with this—mildly scared look in her eyes? I was so confused.” David gives William’s hand a little squeeze. 

“I am glad you were there when I woke up.”

William grins back, thankful for--well, everything.

He tells David that he is thinking about telling Kappy and Zach. He has been thinking hard about it for the last couple of days and he can’t guarantee either’s reaction but they checked in everyday he has been at Boston and sometimes you have got to take that leap of faith with people you love the most. And then he wouldn't have to cancel meetups to go to their housewarming parties.

David tells him he doesn’t want to get divorced.

“God no,” William replies, and maybe it’s leftover overprotectiveness from the accident but even the thought makes him clench his jaw. “We will burn every copy of the divorce papers.”

It’s probably not the best idea they had. But William doesn’t think it’s the worst one either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eep now there exists an epilogue!


	2. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a fluffy epilogue BECAUSE WHY NOT they have suffered enough

“What is that?” William asks. Last time he was here there didn’t used to be an ornate candle tree on David’s dining table.

“Oh that?” David cranes his head to look up at William from where he is comfortably tucked under William’s arm on the sofa. He has been released from the hospital a couple of days ago and while he is still weak and not particularly mobile he is doing leaps and bounds better than before. And he is so solid and lovely, pressed against William. 

“Krej gave it to me. Said romance is important in a relationship you know. Apparently he and Naomi have one just like it and it really helps set the mood for a romantic dinner.” 

He frowns slightly and William laughs. Krejci is the first teammate David came out to last week of his own volition and the Bruins are strange people--there is something… _off_ about the entire team if you ask William--but they mean well. This is a candle holder of love and support.

He is tempted to say _at least he didn’t offer you a Tupperware of home cooked vegetables_ but might as well do this now.

“Speaking of romance and presents--”

He gently disentangles himself from David, careful not to jostle him, and gets up.

“Please don’t tell me you brought another a candle holder,” David yells after him as he makes it to his jacket in a few quick steps.

William hasn’t. He returns to the couch, clutching a small, velvety box and sits down right where he was before. David looks at the box and then at him, his expression that mix of confusion and anticipation he wears so well. 

William opens the box to reveal two rings, his throat a little dry. 

“Are they--?” David asks quietly.

And they are. Wedding rings. 

White gold and with a paisley pattern etched onto them. 

“Kappy helped me pick.” William explains. “It’s not right that Marchand lost your ring.”

And this time they are ornate and expensive because David should have never had a simple clunky ring in the first place. That has never been who David is or what he deserves.

“Is that it?” David says now, turning to him, eyebrows raised.

Now it’s William’s turn to frown. 

“What do you mean is that it?”

It stings a little if he is honest, given the trouble he went to find just the right ring, and Kappy, while surprisingly supportive of his sexual tendencies and marriage, is not easy company to drag around jewelers. But then David says-- 

“You said there would be romance but you are just handing me a ring as if it was a candle holder,” and it hits William what he is getting at.

Which is not any less ridiculous.

“You want me to go down on one knee and propose??” 

David gives him a small shrug and nod.

“Every guy dreams of the day a charming caveman will take his hand and declare that he is the one for him, you know.”

William purses his lips. There is so much he can snipe back in return. For one they are already married in case David has forgotten. They have been for years. For two, sure, David likes him clean shaven but the reason he even has a scruff right now is because he packed his bag first thing in the morning and flew to Boston straight after practice--time he could have spent shaving was time he didn’t want to spend away from David’s stupid face. He has been flying to Boston so much in the middle of a hockey season in full swing, sue him for skipping a haircut appointment or too.

And David--David proposed to him over text, you know, back when they actually _weren’t_ married. He has no leg to stand on when it comes to romance.

But then he looks at David, with his wild hair, and one arm still in a sling, and a glint of something earnest in his eyes and--

He doesn’t say any of those things. Instead he gets up, takes the box, and goes on one knee.

“David,” he starts. He would have prepared a speech had he known. “When I thought I might lose you--” 

He stops because he still can’t finish that sentence, not with his heart squeezing so hard in his chest. He thought he might die when he thought he might lose David. Thought of everything he did wrong and everything he would never get to do again, do better. He swallows and tries again.

“You wouldn’t know what letting go is if it hit you upside the head and every time you sneeze it’s so loud I am afraid I will get a noise complaint from my neighbors and I love you. I love you more than I ever knew how to put to words, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, whatever life might throw at us. Because you are worth fighting for, and David I will fight the world for you.”

He stops to breathe. Tears are stinging against his eyes and his throat is dry and David doesn’t seem to be faring any better either, looking back at him with wide eyes and his lower lip trembling. He hasn’t blinked once since William started talking.

William takes David’s ring in his hand and finishes quietly-- “that is, if you will marry me.”

David nods, two tears spilling from the pools in his eyes and William slides the ring on his finger before he pulls himself back up onto the couch.

He wants to say something snarky, because that’s what he does. Something like ‘take note because that’s how you nail a proposal’ or ‘take that candle tree how is that for romance’ but David is right next to him with pink dusting his cheeks and crying silently and William can’t do any of those things. 

No, all he can do is to slide his hand behind David’s head and pull him in for a kiss that tastes of salt and might just be the best one he has had yet.

*

“Do you know how much I love you,” David whispers against his ear when they break for air and William does. He knows it like he knows his own name, always has, but he says “tell me,” anyway. Because some things you need to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was fueled by my tears and Advil so if you liked it please, I beg you, drop me a line below. Some days I don't put in this much effort to my actual job. I am also on tumblr @blindbatalex if you want to come and say hi!
> 
> Also, Pasta apparently took Nylander's number -- 88 -- when they moved to North America. If that isn't true love I don't know what is!


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